


Bucko-ween

by dottieapple



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint's Dumb Dog is Still a Good Boy, Decorative Gourds are crap weapons, Gen, Halloween, Laura is just a mention, Natasha is just a mention, Stucky relationship but no sex in this story, pre-war Stucky mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 10:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16386410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottieapple/pseuds/dottieapple
Summary: Bucky has been left behind at the Barton family homestead. No notes were left, save for two skull Halloween decorations on the front doors. Death awaits? (Probably not.)Rated Mature for language, a mention of grisly violence, and some sexual innuendo.





	Bucko-ween

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imhereforgaysuperheroes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imhereforgaysuperheroes/gifts).



> _Author's Note: tried to make this fun and fluffy, but it also has some darkness to it. I guess that's what happens when you begin with the noir perspective of America's longest-serving POW. 'Tis the season, I suppose._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Based on a real message from the StuckyAU Big Bang Slack by msmarvelftw!

I just woke up from a nap. No one else is here. The cars are gone. It's deadly quiet. The only thing different is that there are now two skeleton head Halloween decorations hanging from the front door.

 

I think they were left as a warning.

 

The air in the house is still; all that’s left is the faint aroma of coffee and cinnamon buns from brunch, which was around 1100 hours. No one made lunch before leaving the premises. That much is clear. If they left of their own volition, it was in a rush.

 

For reasons yet undetermined, they have left me behind. Alone.  

 

There are no signs of struggle or a fight. Even the dog is missing. I got no reason to believe they were abducted. I’m not surprised Barton would choose to flee with the dog and not me. People choose those they are loyal to for companionship. Always. He’s got no reason to trust me.

 

Steve trusts me. Had there been a dire reason to evacuate, Steve would understand that I could defend myself. Would’ve given the seats in the vehicles to Barton’s wife and kids, to Natasha. Women and children first. It’s always the way.

 

Broken old men with decades-long criminal records and Nazi-engineered prosthetic weaponry get left behind. Got nothing worth living for. Steve would understand I’d rather go down in a hail of bullets than keep running.

 

I used to love this time of year. I remember a crispness in the air and buying plenty of apples from upstate at the grocers’. It didn’t come with the sinking feeling I have now. Two skulls, peering out toward the long, winding driveway. 

 

_ Beware, _ they spell out for anyone coming in for the kill.  _ Death awaits. _

 

I kick at the rustic floorboards in the dining room. If Barton has hidden weapons here, it would be the perfect spot. I’m listening for anything hollow, anything loose. It’s tough to tell when I’m not wearing shoes. 

 

When they come to attack, they’ve got to go through me. I’ll tell them nothing. I’m going to fight bootless, unarmored, bare-chested. 

 

I finally find a loose floorboard. When I pull it up, there is nothing under it except a shoebox full of passports with fake names and a collection of written correspondence. Panic is spreading in me like a sickness. I can’t let it paralyze me. I need weapons. The bedroom. The bags. I run upstairs, three at a time.

 

My knives are not here; I remember Steve saying something about the shield being enough if trouble came knocking for us. Of course Steve took his shield. It wouldn’t be right for me to use it anyway. Natasha said Barton’s kids like to snoop so she was securing my knives in a compartment in the trunk of the car, alongside her own. She claimed this was standard practice because Laura Barton didn’t like Clint “bringing too much home”, whatever that meant. Without a family of my own anymore, I guess I’ll never fully understand that.   
  
Fortunately, I have a sidearm and bullets packed separately in the backpack, under my journals, so I pull them out and load the gun. I shrug on the shoulder holster. No time to search for the flak jacket. I need to be downstairs again. Need to be ready for whoever or whatever might break down the front door.

 

There’s a lot I don’t remember, but what I do shows up in fits and starts. Right now, it’s clear as day: Steve is small, but not too young. He’s got that stupid face he makes when he’s concentrating real hard. It’s fucking cute, but I’d never say, not in front of his ma. He’s carefully carving a face into the most misshapen pumpkin I’ve ever seen. Ma Rogers is attempting to cook something with the pumpkin flesh she scooped from the inside. 

 

On the table next to where I’m sitting, a tray with the guts of the pumpkin. All slick, stringy, full of seeds. I gotta shake my head quick so the memory stops morphing into the grotesque picture of that General’s guts, before my left hand starts repeating the precise cuts with which I opened his belly while he was still breathing.

 

_ No!  _ I can’t get lost in my own mind. Not today. Not here. You used to love October, Bucky, but those days are long gone. No apples on the dining table here. Just one bumpy, hideous decorative gourd on the mantle. Crisp air turned to chilling cold and two dead-eyed skeletons peering out at the shadows of midday on the front porch. 

 

All this, and one husk of a man who used to be James Buchanan Barnes. Every nerve in this scarred, broken body is primed for a fight. Maybe my last. What a fucking sad state of affairs.

 

When they get here, I’ll be ready. I hope Steve and the others are far away now. I hope Barton’s family and his idiot dog are on the way to a fine safehouse. There’s a lot of furniture here, most of it too delicate to provide a tactical advantage or any substantial cover. Maybe I should rip up that butcher’s block that’s bolted to the kitchen floor, turn it on its side, use every available sharp thing in the drawer. 

 

Turns out, the block is easy enough to move. It’s dense, maybe enough to stop something of a small caliber. The dining table is quick work, and now I have a makeshift barricade. I’ll crouch here.

 

_ Easy, soldier. Measured breaths. Your rifle isn’t here, but no reason to not sit in silence.  _

 

_ I love you, Stevie. Tasha, I’m sorry. I will do this for you. Both of you. It’s the least I could sacrifice. _

 

The sound of tires up the drive. My sweating palms. The sound of my heart like artillery rounds. But I won’t be captured this time. Never again.  _ Steel yourself, soldier.  _

 

Boots on gravel and quiet voices. There is a click of the front lock, so obvious--they must not know I’m here. The knob turns and the latch opens so casually. That’s right, you bastards, everyone is gone, safe. Just walk the fuck in, so careless. What you don’t know about those Halloween skulls won’t hurt you.  _ Beware. Death awaits. _

  
  


**********

  
  


Steve can’t stop the unbridled joy on his face as he carries two pumpkins up the front steps to Clint’s gorgeous farmhouse. He may have grown up a Brooklyn city boy, but these forays out to the country never fail to enliven his spirits. And God, this autumn is so beautiful. All the leaves around them changing, crisp breezes, and of course, Halloween. 

 

He always remembers Bucky loving October, purchasing way too many apples down at the grocers’ and bringing them home, cheap and abundant in season. He lovingly replays memories of sun-dappled afternoons when the air was still but cool, perched on a stool on the fire escape sketching the trees losing their leaves. Partially colorblind then, Steve would ask Bucky to help choose colors for the changing leaves. Bucky would cut slices from an apple with his pocketknife and occasionally feed them to Steve as he worked. He’d also grouse at Buck every time he’d hand over a colored pencil, hands sticky with apple juice.   
  


Back then, Sarah had taught Steve to make applesauce which they canned in jars. Cooking wasn’t his strongest suit, but this was a generally simple process, so even he couldn’t screw it up. He decides maybe tomorrow he can teach Laura, the kids, and Bucky if he’s interested. Oh, and apple pies would be made. Bucky could have a whole pie to himself. Perhaps that would be enough to jog some more pleasant memories from his best guy. 

 

Steve thinks of Bucky’s peaceful expression as he was taking his after-brunch nap. He couldn’t wait to go wake him now, gentle and sweet. Steve would nuzzle gently against his stubble, pepper his face with little kisses, and excitedly share that they’d bought pumpkins to carve and cider to drink. Bucky would be relieved that he didn’t have to go face the crowds and cram into the cars with the Barton clan, Lucky the dog, Natasha, and Steve.    
  
Steve opens the front door carefully and pads into the foyer to avoid any sudden noises that might be disturbing to Bucky. But before he can even bend to set the two pumpkins on the table in the entryway, a knife whizzes past his head at superhuman speed. A warning shot, the blade is embedded in the door frame. Steve dodges as another object hurls toward him more carelessly--a meat fork, which bounces off the wall and clatters to the ground. He quickly puts the pumpkins by his feet as he hops out of a defensive crouch.

 

Steve sees something oblong and yellow flying toward his head now, his reflexes kicking into overdrive. He snatches the object out of the air; it’s the decorative gourd from the mantle. He finally takes in the tableau before him and raises both eyebrows. “Bucky?”

 

Bucky peeks over the edge of the dining table, turned on its side. “You’re...alive,” he sighs with an amount of relief that puzzles Steve just as much as the hastily constructed table fort. 

 

“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” He approaches Bucky slowly, gently so as not to spook him. He holds the gourd out to Bucky like a peace offering. Steve doesn’t understand what’s triggered this, and he makes an effort to keep his eyes open and focused because he wants to blink incredulously at all of this. 

 

Bucky stands and runs his metal hand through his hair, reaching for the gourd with the opposite hand. He quickly scans the room, his gaze darting around frantically. “Where are the others?”

 

“Didn’t you get my text?”    
  
“What text?” Bucky asks, gesturing with the gourd as though it’s a phone he can check his messages on.

 

“Guess that’s a no,” Steve half-frowns. He’s glad he was the first to come back into the house. He hides a small smile because Bucky is standing in nothing but his shoulder holster (thank god he didn’t fire the gun) and his favorite pajama pants--the soft ones with the astronaut alpaca print on them. Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket and sees his text didn’t send. He hits ‘retry’. 

 

Bucky’s phone buzzes from somewhere on the floor. He bends down to pick it up, taking a moment to read aloud. “ _We’re all going to the Orchard Festival. I figured you’d want to sleep rather than face the maddening crowd. I’m going to buy you so many apples._ _Just like old times._ Heart emoji, apple emoji, jack-o-lantern emoji.” Bucky starts to laugh, drawn out and slow, and gently scrubs his metal palm over his face. “Oh my god.” 

 

“I, uh,” Steve stutters, unable to keep his grin from growing because blushing Bucky ranks in his top five iterations of Bucky. “Of all the reactions to have, I never suspected I’d find you preparing for a standoff, Buck.”

 

Bucky sheepishly places the decorative gourd back on the mantle, then crosses back to the table/barricade. He starts to gather kitchen knives, scissors, whatever cutlery he’d stockpiled. “So I thought you left me to defend the homestead, and the whole time I was preparing to do battle with--”   
  
“Fresh produce,” Steve chuckles, “cider, some bales of hay. I mean, Natasha bought the kids caramel apples, but I don’t think you need actual weapons to fight off sugared-up munchkins.” 

 

Bucky looks down at the floor, still and silent. 

 

Steve pins his resolve to make today light and fun, because otherwise his heart will break thinking of how the man he loves beyond measure still believes he is undeserving of good. Bucky’s hurt is still unfathomable to Steve. In his eyes, Bucky is already redeemed by virtue of escaping HYDRA, overcoming his brainwashing, and finally arriving home to Steve’s arms. 

 

Bucky takes what sounds to be a cleansing breath--a very deep in-and-out. He places his hands on his hips as he appraises the chaos he created. 

 

“C’mon, Buck,” says Steve. “I’ll help you get this stuff back where it belongs.” He turns and pulls the paring knife from the doorframe. The two work in tandem, with the last step uprighting the butcher’s block in the kitchen. The front door and the side door open nearly simultaneously as the Bartons, Lucky, and Natasha carry things indoors. Steve and Bucky nod at each other in silent agreement to not discuss what Steve came home to.

 

Natasha places a bushel of apples on the dining table. “You have any trouble getting back by yourself?” she asks in Steve’s direction.

 

“Nah,” he says, casually drying the cutlery which had been on the floor about 10 minutes ago. “I brought in two of the pumpkins, but there’s more in the car.” She turns on her heel and goes back outside to bring in more goodies.

 

Lucky trots around the kitchen and gives Bucky’s butt and crotch a good sniff hello. “Leave him alone, dummy,” says Clint, absently. He turns to look at his always-underfoot canine companion but his gaze then settles on Bucky’s outfit. “Whoa there, Barnes. You, uh, trying out a Halloween costume there? Do I need to do a Google Image search for the Village People?” He looks around the room nervously, scanning for the kids. His cheeks turn a faint crimson. “You going for the cowboy or the cop?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “Sorry for--” he glances down at his exposed torso, leather holster straps, and low-riding waistband. 

 

“He hasn’t decided,” Steve pipes up, a little too loud. “We might make it a couples’ costume.” 

 

Clint awkwardly barks a laugh. “Well, I have plenty of unsolicited opinions when you guys are ready for the big reveal,” he squawks. He sidles up to Steve and whispers in his ear. “I don’t know what kinda sex games you were trying to play here, but, like--rude, Steve. Keep that shit in your bedroom, keep it far from here, and keep it fucking silent. Thought you guys slept in separate beds like every couple did in the ‘40s.” 

 

Steve wants to say something about that being a misconception brought on by unnecessary Hollywood censorship and ludicrous production codes instituted in the 1930s, but instead he just says, “Bucky had just woken up from his nap when I got here.” 

 

“Yep,” says Bucky, passing by to go find a shirt in his things upstairs. “I was having a cup of coffee when Steve came in.” 

 

Clint looks back and forth between the two supersoldiers. “Whatever, guys. Just don’t let it happen again.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, y'all! Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are my bread & butter, so feel free to yell whatever you like in yonder comments section. 
> 
> xoxo,  
> Dot


End file.
